Mischief's Week
by Mirwalker
Summary: The team investigates a series of gruesome Abnormal murders as the Network convenes at the UK Sanctuary under the cover of Halloween week.


**SANCTUARY: Mischief's Week**

by Mirwalker

_The team investigates a series of gruesome Abnormal murders as the Network convenes at the UK Sanctuary under the cover of Halloween week. _

A/N: I am not as familar with Sanctuary-verse as some others, so helpful feedback will be especially useful on this piece. I'll likely provide some additional details-place in series timeline, etc, as it unfolds to me.)

**PROLOGUE**

* * *

"Three fish and chips for our visitors; and a Chef's special for Robbie," said the friendly barman, as they all smiled and nodded thanks for the hot meal on this rainy London night.

"I still can't believe you chose 'Robbie' as your mundane name," mentioned Henry, as he and Will traded off salt, vinegar and ketchup.

"I can't believe they call someone who makes pub fare a 'chef,'" observed their psychologist.

"You're too busy doctoring your meal to have tried it," chided Declan, as he noted their server was prepping a fresh round of pints without needing to be asked. Glaring back to Zimmerman, he explained what faces around the table had realized on their first bites, "Otherwise you'd know the _chef_ here makes some amazing grub. Nice guy too; I think Paddy is eyeing him to take over eventually."

Will swore he saw a patron across the room dig into her own basket with a snap of an unusually long and lithe tongue.

At his table, Magnus looked up, less surprised by the culinary quips than by the staff succession gossip. "Is he talking again of retiring?" She was more restrained with her application of extras to her meal.

"He's been a great ally for the Sanctuary," MacRae reminded. "The pub's a great gathering and meeting point. He's under no obligation, obviously; but it'd be a big loss if it doesn't stay Abnormal friendly."

"Speaking of friendly," Helen said with a smile and a little more volume than necessary, to call the conversation's attention to the barman's return.

"Another round for our favorite neighbor and his visitors." He passed down the brimming glasses, and gathered a few empties. "How is everything, folks?"

"This. Is. Amazing," declared Henry, stuffing an additional strip of cod or potato into his already full mouth, as to emphasize each word.

Zimmerman simply nodded his puffed cheeks, as he sipped from his fresh stout. He nearly spit it all out when he definitely saw the prehensile tongue in action behind them.

"Our compliments to the chef," summarized Magnus, hoping to head off any additional, less civil outbursts.

"Well, I thank you," blushed the server, with a gracious nod of his head. "Any friend of Robbie's, is a friend of ours." He slapped Declan on the shoulder and apologized, "Speaking of, I have to get back to the kitchen. Just wave at Paddy, and he'll take care of you. I'll try to check again before you're off…"

"He's the cook too?" breathed their techno whiz between battered bites.

The Head of the UK Sanctuary chuckled. "Some people can multitask, Henry. They always take good care of the regulars. And, like I said, Paddy's eyeing him to take over; and so wants to be sure we have a good sense of him."

"What's his story then?" asked Will, trying to maintain his manners while enjoying the post-flight, pre-conference meal.

Magnus raised her eyebrows to second the question as she more graciously dined.

Their host wiped his hands, and cited from memory, "Nathanial 'Wick' Stannard, son of a lorry driver and school teacher in Peterborough, north of London. Unremarkable school years; signed up with Royal Marines as soon as he could, and served as a cook on a few international tours. Got out about a year ago, and ended up here through a few odd jobs. Clean record, with a knack for the kitchen and taste for the ploughman's platter over haute cuisine…"

"You think he'd have any interest in crossing the pond?" asked Henry, as he licked his own fingers clean, and eyed Will's. "I mean, no offense to Biggie, but that was same _damn_ good food!"

"Before you start the reassignment paperwork," the Network's chief executive suggested, "We've all had a long day of travel and time change; hopefully all the carbs will help you sleep soundly and be ready for the strategy meetings in the morning. We're here on business, remember."

Waving his empty basket and pint glass at the aged barkeep, Henry counter-proposed with an honest, confident and yet pleading, grin on his face, "So I'd bet I could sleep even better with even more carbs, liquid and golden-fried."

* * *

Having found his way to the kitchen for coffee the next morning, Zimmerman wandered into a frenzy of activity once he found his way down to the unfamiliar facility's main lab.

Nodding groggily to several of the British Sanctuary staff and/or residents, he finally found Magnus behind a glass wall, performing what appeared to be an autopsy in full hazmat gear.

"So glad you could join us this morning, Will," she chided him through the fog of the intercom, his slight hangover/jetlag, or both. She'd noticed him as she moved around to the opposite side of the table.

Once she'd moved, he could clearly see the partially draped body of a grey-hued young woman. Other than the death pallor, she looked human enough, except that streaming out her open mouth into a neat coil on the table beside her head were several feet of narrow tissue that was obviously her uncommonly long tongue. She was the woman from the pub the night before; and her prehensile utensil was covered in what looked like… sand. The same substance was caked around her mouth and nose. And deep bruises radiated up and down her throat and upper chest.

That this had not been on the trip's agenda, and that Magnus was poking around inside her open ribcage, meant he was certainly going to need more coffee. Given the locals' buzz around him, he gathered this administrative gathering had apparently taken on a whole new direction.

* * *

_tbc..._


End file.
